


100 ASOIAF Fairy Tales

by lit_chick08



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: 100 Fairy Tale Fic Table, Affairs, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arranged Marriage, Brother-Sister Relationships, Discussion of Rape, Domestic Violence, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, POV Female Character, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-10 12:44:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 18,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lit_chick08/pseuds/lit_chick08
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of fills for the <b>100 Fairy Tales Fic Table</b> on Livejournal</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Girl Who Ate So Little (Lady Hornwood)

She does not know what day it is. She does not know how long she has been in this tower or how many days it has been since her terrible farce of a wedding to the Bastard of Bolton. It was nothing like her wedding to Halys, where there was laughter and happiness and food.

Food.

She is so hungry.

* * *

It's raining. She can hear the drops outside her window but the bars keep her from straining out to catch the water on her tongue. When Daryn was still small, they did that; they'd stand outside the keep and catch snowflakes.

Daryn is dead now, food for crows.

Food.

Her stomach aches with emptiness.

* * *

No one comes. She waits for someone to storm the tower to rescue her, but no one has come. She has not seen hide nor hair of anyone in days. Is it days? She isn't quite certain. A few times she calls out with a hoarse voice which sounds nothing like her own, but no one answers. When she can sleep, she imagines Wyman is gathering men in White Harbor to save her and, when he does, there will be a feast.

She cannot remember when last she ate. Perhaps if she could catch one of the rats...

But she is too slow, always too slow.

* * *

There is so much pain. It is worse than losing her husband and son, worse than what the Bastard of Bolton has done to her, worse than when she broke her arm when she was a child; her stomach feels as if it eating itself in desperation, and the pain is so great.

She screams, begs, pleads for someone to bring her food, but no one answers. With weak hands, she beats upon the door, but there is nothing. As she sinks to the floor, she looks at her hands, at the ten fingers there, and thinks a person does not need them all. She knew a man once who had shortened fingers and he was fine.

The first bite hurts but not nearly as bad as the ache in her belly.

A woman can live with nine fingers.

* * *

No one is coming. She does not trick herself now. Donella knows she will die here in this tower, and no one will remember her at all. She asks the Old Gods to save her, her last hope, but they don't answer either.

 _Make it stop_ , she pleads as she lies in the center of the floor, gnawing on her right thumb, the last of her fingers. _Please make it stop._

It doesn't stop.

* * *

Her stomach does not hurt anymore, but she cannot move either. Now her head aches, the world seeming to spin even as she remains still. Even in her weakness, Donella understands she is about to die.

She thinks of Halys and Daryn and all the others who have gone before her. Perhaps they will greet her when she passes, and they will feast.

She'd like a feast.


	2. Mistaken Identity (Jeyne Poole)

King Stannis's men keep calling her “Lady Arya.” Theon says not to correct them, that they won't see her to safety if they know she is just Jeyne Poole, just the daughter of a steward, so she keeps her lips sealed tight. At night, when she lets herself cry, she does not think of the lash at the brothel or all the terrible things Ramsay Bolton has done and made her do; so long as Stannis Baratheon thinks she is Arya, Jeyne knows she will not be sent back there or be forced into a man's bed again.

She cries for her father and her sisters, for kind Lord Stark who lost his head and handsome Robb who lost his as well. She cries for Sansa, who disappeared from King's Landing and is likely dead as well. She cries for Bran and Rickon, for Lord Rodrik and Old Nan and little Beth who used to follow her around like a puppy. She cries for Theon, who is so broken now, and for Winterfell, which is barely more than a ruin. There is no home now, no people who knew her and cared for her; there is only Theon and these men who think she is someone else entirely. It is as if Jeyne Poole did not exist at all.

Jon Snow will see she is not Arya. If she could not fool Theon, she will certainly not be able to fool Jon, whose eyes were always sharp and noticed everything when they were children. She remembers how she used to sneer at him for being a bastard, but she wishes all bastards were as kind as Jon had been; the Bastard of Winterfell would never have treated her as heinously as the Bastard of Bolton. Perhaps he will not turn her away, will let her stay at Castle Black; she will even keep to his bed if he asks so long as he does not send her back to Ramsay.

She thinks of the direwolves the Starks once had, and she wonders if the white one still stays at Jon's side. It would be large by now; it could tear out Ramsay's throat and kill his dogs with little effort. And even if he is a man of the Night's Watch, he sent those wildlings to save her; he must hate Ramsay too. If she can reach Jon Snow, he and his wolf can keep her safe.

She will only have to be Arya for a little while longer, and then she can be Jeyne again. 

In the morning, when the men call her “Lady Arya,” she meets their gazes like Arya would have done once and thinks of the Wall.


	3. The Blood That Testified To The Truth (Jeyne Westerling)

Jeyne is six-years-old the first time it happens. She is sitting with her mother and some of the other women of the Crag when Jeyne looks up from her clumsy stitches and announces, “You have to call the maester.”

Sybell smiles indulgently and says, “Oh? Why's that?”

“He has to fix Raynald's arm.”

Sybell looks at her in confusion only a moment before one of the servants bursts in to announce Raynald has fallen from a tree and broken his arm. 

The women in the room will say Jeyne must have heard Raynald shout from the courtyard, that is just coincidence. Jeyne knows she didn't hear Raynald cry out but she doesn't know _how_ she knew. 

She asks her mother how she knew, and Sybell shushes her, tells her not to mention it again.

* * *

Kevan Lannister and his sons come to the Crag, all golden-haired and crimson-cloaked. Jeyne knows her parents are hoping to make a match for her with one of them, and she hopes it is Lancel. He is the most handsome and is going to go to King's Landing soon to serve King Robert. Jeyne thinks she'd like to go away from the Crag, to see what else is in the world.

They are supping on the last night the Lannisters will be at the Crag when Lancel begins talking about his aspirations in the Capitol. He has announced he will be a grand knight like Ser Jaime, winning battles and earning the king's good graces when he turns to Jeyne and says, “Isn't that right, Jeyne?”

She does not consciously choose her words. As she stares at nothing, they spill out, almost as if they have come from someone else, _somewhere_ else. “No, you will be no knight. You will become withered and white, and your mark will be the seven-pointed star. You will serve no king, only the Faith - “

“Jeyne!” her mother interrupts, her voice tight and biting, and Jeyne shakes her head, trying to get rid of the fog surrounding herself. When she looks at Lancel and his brothers, at Kevan's horrified face and her father's own confused visage, Jeyne's stomach sinks as she flushes bright with embarrassment.

Kevan Lannister refuses to allow his sons to marry her. Her father pats her on the head and tells her it is alright, that they will find her a wonderful match, but her mother frowns and tells her she has to learn to control it better.

“Control what?” Jeyne asks, but her mother never answers.

* * *

The day Robb and his men are to ride for the Twins, all Jeyne can see is red. It is on her hands, in the air, turning Grey Wind crimson and Robb's face maroon. Shaking off her mother, she rides to catch him, tries to tell him he cannot go to Lord Frey, but he tells her she is being silly and nothing is going to happen. He becomes short with her, all but orders her back to Riverrun, and Jeyne curses her inability to explain that the things she sees come true, that she does not know how it happens or where it comes from but she is never wrong.

She tells her mother something is going to happen, that there will be blood and death, and Jeyne sees the panic in Sybell's eyes at the declaration. Her mother does not like her visions, but her mother _trusts_ them, and, when word arrives of the murder of the Northmen, of Robb and Lady Catelyn and Raynald, Jeyne sobs, “I told you, I told you, I told you!”

No one ever listens.

* * *

They keep her in the Crag like a prisoner, the widow of a false king with only Elenya as company. She does not speak to her parents if she can help it, and, the longer they keep her locked away, the more frequent the visions come. Soon she knows of nearly everything before it happens, predicting the outcome of battles with the same ease as she announces the arrival of visitors to the castle. The servants begin to whisper how she is a witch, and Jeyne wonders if it is true, if there is some sort of magic in her blood. She has heard the whispers about her mother's grandmother, who sold love potions and told fortunes, and the Westerlings are descended from the First Men; perhaps there _is_ magic in her, something powerful and strong that everyone has underestimated.

Everyone has _always_ underestimated her. 

She vows they never will again.

* * *

Her mother fears her. Sybell never says anything explicit, but Jeyne knows. With every deconstructed gown she wears and every trinket Jeyne adds to her hair, Sybell looks at her as if she is seeing a ghost, some apparition Sybell has tried to banish from her mind. When visitors arrive at the Crag, her parents try to hurry her off, to force her into a proper gown and wipe away the kohl she lines her eyes with, but Jeyne revels in appearing midway through a meal looking like some woods witch from children's stories. She smiles as guests gasp at her predictions, as they shy away from her as if she is some creature whose disease is catching; there will be no matches for her now. Even the Lannisters and the power of the Iron Throne will not make a man wish to wed a witch.

Not that it matters. Her visions show lions being overtaken by roses, the roses being overtaken by fire, and the fire being snuffed out by snow.

* * *

A trading ship from Volantis comes to the Crag, and one of the sailors seek her out. He is a tall man, thickly muscled with scars on his face; he is the sort of man other men fear. But when he finds Jeyne on the beach, he looks at her and asks with fear in _his_ voice, “Are you the _maegi_?”

She does not know the word, thinks it is foreign and likely means witch, so she nods. “I am.”

He seeks his fortune, offers up a drop of his blood. Jeyne stares at the tiny wound before leaning forward, gathering it on her tongue, the tang of iron and pain. The man will die at sea, lost in one of the winter storms as he returns to the Free Cities, and she tells him that. As the horror grows on his face, he begs her for a charm, for something to keep away the Stranger. Jeyne tells him to come back the next day, where she gives him a satchet of herbs bound with a strand of rope and a lock of his own hair.

“Never take it off,” she orders, “or else the Stranger will come.”

She does not know if it is true, it she has given him something true or something false, but the next time the ship from Volantis arrives, the man returns, the satchet tied around his neck, more sailors wanting to know their fortunes.

* * *

They start calling her the Wolf Witch. Jeyne twists grey and white ribbon into her dark hair, and, when she smiles, it reminds her of Grey Wind's snarl. Her mother threatens to keep her sealed up in a tower until she comes to her senses; Jeyne raises her chin defiantly and declares, “I see you.”

Sybell blanches from the words, and later Jeyne hears her murmuring to herself in Valyrian, in the language her Spicer grandparents spoke; the words they spoke in the Common Tongue were always accented, thicker on the tongue somehow, and Jeyne begins to imitate the sounds when she is by herself, combining the remembered vowel sounds with the gruffness of the Greatjon's words, the melodic rhythm of the Myrish merchants, the lilting syllables of the Lysene sailors; her accent is nowhere and everywhere, the voice of a woman with no place in the world.

People from the Westerlands begin to seek her out in secret, hoods drawn over their faces, coming in the dark of the night. They ask for predictions and potions, peace of mind and answers to prayers. “The gods have forgotten you, but the Wolf Witch will not,” they whisper, and soon Jeyne has accumulated a small fortune in silver stags and gold dragons, pressed into her palm by the desperate and greedy.

“Will you not be satisfied until you ruin this family?” Sybell asks her one evening as she returns from telling fortunes, her mother perched upon the edge of her bed. “As hard as we have worked to climb, why must you push us down?”

“Is there some station higher than queen?”

Sybell gets to her feet, grasping Jeyne's hands tightly. “Robb Stark was going to die no matter what I did. The Reynes of Castamere may be only a song to you, but I knew them; I saw what Tywin Lannister did. If I had not done what I did - “

“Winter is coming, Mother,” Jeyne interrupts, digging her nails into the softness of her wrists. “Snow and giants and the wolves, and when they do, you will know how steel tastes.”

Sybell jerks away, true horror on her face, one hand fluttering against her breast. “Your eyes,” she chokes out before stumbling from the room.

When Jeyne looks at her reflection, she finds her eyes have a yellow tint to them.

* * *

She keeps seeing a girl, always the same: tall and lithe with dull brown hair which burns like fire at the root. At first the visions make no sense – falcons and mockingbirds, the Titan of Braavos and a cascade of water from the sky which never lands – but soon Jeyne begins to decipher what it means. She is seeing the Vale of Arryn, and, while she does not know what Braavos has to do with anything, Jeyne understands who the girl is.

Sansa Stark disappeared ages ago. She would need to be hidden from view.

No one's vision is as sharp as Jeyne's.

Some of her gold buys her passage to Gulltown, and, as Jeyne stands on the bow of the ship, watching as the Crag disappears, she thinks Jeyne Westerling has been left there. She is the _maegi_ now, the Wolf Witch with no name, and that is who she shall be when she reaches Sansa Stark in the Vale.

She will be a witch and Sansa will be queen; she sees it in her visions.

And her visions are never wrong.


	4. Sailing in a Contrary Wind (Asha Greyjoy)

Before her father's rebellion, she was made to act a girl by her mother. Alannys would force her into gowns and brush out her long, dark hair, winding it into complicated braids; Asha hated it even then, would try to chase after Rodrik and Maron who got to do so much while she was stuck being cooped up in the castle with Theon, who was too little to be anything fun.

And then the Rebellion happened, and everything changed. Rodrik and Maron died, Theon was sent off with Ned Stark, and Alannys fled to Harlaw, haunting the building like a ghost. Suddenly no one cared if she wore gowns or braided her hair; no one cared if she cursed like the thralls or learns the Finger Dance. Her father didn't notice her much either until the day she came down to break fast after chopping at her hair until it hung in a messy fringe around her face. That was the day Balon Greyjoy looked at her – ruined hair, dressed in Rodrik's tunic, Maron's breeches, and Theon's boots, a dirk she stole from Uncle Aeron on her hip – and said, “What is dead may never die.”

“But rises harder and stronger,” she intoned more from habit than anything else, but Balon smiled in that way of his, nodded his head, and took her down to the docks. He gave her to one of his men, an old grizzled thing with rough hands and a sour face, and ordered him to teach Asha everything he knew about captaining a ship.

Men don't like her much, especially when she was learning the ropes. They want to fuck her or beat her down, but they can do neither because she is Asha Greyjoy. They whisper that she is a bitch and a cunt, that if she was not Balon's daughter they would show her how a proper woman is to act. But she is good with a dirk, better with an ax, and no one knows the sea as well as she does. It is slow and difficult, but the men start to trust her more and soon the sight of _The Black Wind_ earns cheers from the men on the docks. With Theon away, she does not doubt she will be Balon's heir and be the first woman to sit the Seastone Chair.

Let her uncles argue all they like about who will sit the chair, let them pretend the Kingsmoot means something, let them marry her to whatever old, fat man they wish; she is Asha Greyjoy, the daughter of Balon Greyjoy and rightful heir to the Iron Islands. It is not the first time she has become what others said she could not be, and there will be no greater joy than to pay the iron price for what she wants.


	5. How Wide the World Is (Gilly)

When her father used to come to her, pulling her down onto his sleeping furs and taking what he wanted, Gilly would close her eyes, imagine she was someplace else: the Frostfangs, the Fist of the First Men, even the Wall. She would squeeze her eyes until lights would dance across the blackness, and she would think of being anywhere but in Craster's Keep, anywhere but beneath the man who was meant to care for and protect her. The problem was, she did not know so many places to go, so often she pictured places _he_ had taken her.

When the babe quickens, Gilly is spared the indignity of her father's touch, but a new pain replaces it. She knows she is carrying a son, and everyone knows the boys get carried off never to be seen again. Her sister Pryn bore a boy on her last pregnancy, and Craster broke her jaw when she tried to keep the baby. No boys can be kept; that is the rule and has always been the rule.

Craster always says you cannot trust a crow, but Sam is different. She sees the kindness in his eyes, and, even though the others call him craven, Gilly thinks he is braver than he knows. When she begs him to help take her away, she does not even know where; everyone knows the crows can't keep women or children, but perhaps all the places beyond the Wall are kinder. Perhaps there is some place safe she can raise her son.

He is not very pretty, her boy, not like Lord Snow or some of the other crows. There is too much of Craster in his features, and it makes her sad even as she is grateful for the fact that he lives. But then Lord Snow says her son must stay at the Wall and she must carry Dalla's boy to the place Sam calls Horn Hill, and she sobs until she thinks there is not a drop of salt left in her body. When Maester Aemon dies, Gilly sees how much pain Sam is in, and fucking him is so different from what Craster made her do. This is painless, something she has chosen for herself, and no one has ever been so kind to her as Sam Tarly. 

By the time she and the babe who will one day be called Aemon reach Horn Hill, Gilly wonders how far she is from home. Already the world is bigger than she imagined, and Sam swears it is bigger still. When Sam's mother – Gilly knows she must call her Lady Tarly – comes to meet her, she instantly melts at the sight of the babe and asks, “That is Sam's son?”

“Yes, my lady,” she lies, but it does not feel so much like a lie. Her own father was a cruel man who forced her to do things she never wants to think of; she thinks a father should be a man like Sam, one who is gentle and smiles and gives sweet kisses. She thinks of Val tending to Craster's son, and Gilly wonders if this boy can be hers, untouched by all that was done to her. This babe can be her and Sam's, and no one will ever be the wiser for it.

Lady Tarly and her daughters are so kind to her. They give her a job in the kitchens, but it easy work compared to what it was like beyond-the-Wall. While she works, Lady Tarly dotes upon the babe and even fetches some woman called a septa to tend to him. Fine clothing is made for the babe, and Gilly has never seen a child so beloved as her Aemon.

Winter comes, but it is nothing like what it was in Craster's Keep. There is always a fire, and Lady Tarly has heavy furs brought to the chamber she had given Gilly and Aemon. At night, Aemon cuddles himself against her body, pushes his little face against her throat as he winds his arms around her neck, and Gilly almost forgets this is not the little boy she carried inside herself, that he belongs to Dalla and Mance. His hair is dark and there is a layer of fat on his cheeks from too many treats sneaked to him by Sam's sisters, and Gilly thinks, in the right light, he looks a bit like Sam.

Sam sends letters from Oldtown, and, though Lady Tarly has taught her enough of her letters to write her name and Aemon's, Gilly does not read very well. Lady Tarly reads her the letters and Sam's inquiries into Aemon's health, and Gilly dictates letters to send back to the Citadel. The eldest of Sam's sisters shows her where Oldtown is on a map in relation to Horn Hill, and Gilly marvels at how large the map is, how many other places there are. 

“How far is it to the Wall?” she asks.

“Oh, a thousand leagues.”

Gilly does not know how long a league is, but a thousand sounds like a very large number, so she thinks they will be safe at Horn Hill. Perhaps when Sam is done earning his chain he can take her to some of these places, the ones his sister names Highgarden, Casterly Rock, Riverrun, and Sunspear. The only one Gilly knows is Winterfell, but she does not want to go North again, not until the Others have been pushed back.

They don't believe in the Others at Horn Hill, so Gilly does not teach Aemon about them either. He is a happy boy, quick to laugh and show affection, and Gilly does not want him to know darkness and fear, does not want him to have to learn how to close his eyes and go away. Gilly wants to show him a world without fathers who hurt you and creatures lurking in the dark, a world where people love you and treat you with kindness.

Gilly wants to show him the world Sam Tarly has given to her.


	6. The Silence Wager (Daena the Defiant)

He thinks he can keep her locked away, let her wither on the vine while he says his prayers to the Seven and prostrates himself before the gods. Let Rhaena and Elaena stay prisoners in the vault, let them believe Baelor has the best in mind for them; if they do not want to save themselves, Daena is not going to expend the effort to do it. As she draws her hood up over her face, she thinks of Daeron, good, sweet Daeron who never would have stood for their imprisonment, who loved her well. Daeron should be on the Iron Throne rather than in the Seven Heavens; Baelor has no business being king.

The guards are asleep when the door to her apartments open, Aegon grinning as he swoops his arm in an invitation to pass. Daena laughs, giddy excitement rushing through her blood; the sweet sleep will allow her to go riding with Aegon. It has been so long since she has been outside, and she swallows the fresh air hungrily. She never wants to go back, wants to board a ship for the Free Cities, wants to be anyone other than Daena Targaryen, the put aside wife of her idiot brother, the lady who will die maiden when all she wants is to be loved.

In truth, she does not much like Aegon; he's stupid and crass, but he is the only one who has helped her since Baelor sealed her away. Kissing him is all the invitation he needs, and Daena laughs to herself as Aegon takes her maidenhead. There is part of her who wants to sing it from the highest tower, that would revel in telling Baelor how she is now “ruined” but she won't; this is for her and her alone, and she will not let Baelor have it.

She is five moons gone before anyone notices she is with child. Rhaena and Elaena look horrified, but Daena keeps her chin high as she is taken to Baelor. It is the angriest she has ever seen him, though his anger is only in his eyes. “Who?” he keeps pushing, wanting to shame her before court, but Daena vows then and there she will never breathe a word as to who fathered her child.

 _It is not Aegon's child anyway_ , she rationalizes. _This child is mine and mine alone._

Baelor asks her again when her son is born, but Daena does not say a word. Her words are only for Daemon, and the rest of court can go to all Seven Hells as far as she is concerned. Daemon is a boy of five, more perfect than any child ever born, when Daena draws him onto her lap and asks, “Can you keep a secret?”

Daemon nods, making a show of pressing his lips together.

Daena cups her hands around his ear and whispers, “You are going to be king someday.” 

And when he is, Daena Targaryen will never have to remain silent ever again.


	7. Blood Brothers (Ned/Robert)

It only happened once. Ned arrived at King's Landing, Lyanna's bones and her son bound for the North with Howland and the wet nurse, while he broke the news to Robert himself. There was still hope in Robert then, the hope that Lyanna would be returned to him from wherever Rhaegar kept her, that Lyanna would be his queen and rule the kingdoms they unintentionally wrenched from Targaryen hands. They had not meant to make Robert king, to change the world; they had only wanted to survive, to avenge, to get back what was taken. Robert was not meant to be a king and Ned was meant to be a lord, but here they were, cast in roles which would never feel wholly theirs.

They were both drunk, strongwine stealing their sense as they alternated silence with stories of all they lost; Ned didn't notice then that Robert's stories of Lyanna were more wistful imaginings than truth just as Robert didn't notice Ned spoke so little. Ned wasn't sure how it started, only that it did, and, much like everything with Robert, he could not help but follow once Robert began to lead.

In the morning, when their heads ached and the taste of salt lingered in both of their mouths, they could scarcely look at each other. Ned returned to Winterfell, to his wife and newborn son and the shame he would bear silently to preserve Lyanna's last wish, while Robert wed Cersei and buckled under the weight of his own crown. It was as if it never happened, the event which solidified that the cost of winning a war was far higher than they ever imagined.


	8. The Youth Transformed (Gendry/Arya)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a random AU where Gendry, Arya, and Hot Pie stayed with the BWB, the Red Wedding happened, and there is no Lady Stoneheart. None of this particularly matters to the plot.

The three of them had been together so long – since Yoren, since Harrenhal, since the Brotherhood first found them – that Gendry rarely noticed when Arya or Hot Pie changed. But since the Red Wedding, since Arya discovered there was no one left, she had mostly kept to herself, helping Long Jeyne and Willow while Hot Pie baked and Gendry worked in the forge. With winter's arrival, Arya turned more in on herself, especially once Riverrun fell to the Freys, and all of the Brotherhood worried she was slipping away. At night, when the three of them climbed into the large bed they shared, where Arya once would talk and sometimes laugh, now she stared silently up at the ceiling, lost inside her head.

It was the sixth month of winter when Arya demanded a bed of her own. The inn was full with orphaned children and the Brotherhood, the snow having blocked the road and stranding them inside, but Arya insisted she did not care where she slept so long as it was not with them. He found her making a pallet of skins on the floor in one of the children's rooms and could not stop himself from snapping, “What, is m'lady too fine to sleep with lowborns like us now?”

Arya looked up at him, her grey eyes flashing, and snapped, “I just want to sleep without the two of you poking me!”

“Poking you? What the hells are you talking about?”

Getting to her feet, Arya pushed her index finger into his chest, clearly angry. “I'm sick of waking up to both of you pushing your cocks against me! I'd rather sleep on the floor!”

Gendry blushed bright red, deeply embarrassed. He hadn't known he or Hot Pie was doing that, and he wanted to explain to Arya he wasn't trying to hurt her, that he didn't even know he was doing it, but all he could do was blush and sputter before stomping away. For the next week, he could scarcely meet her gaze, and it was difficult to sleep with only Hot Pie snoring away beside him. 

During the eighth month of winter, he found Arya shredding one of her tunics, ripping it into a bundle of rags, her bottom lip held between her teeth.

“What are you doing?” he asked, and Arya blushed, scrambling to gather the rags against her.

“Nothing! Leave me alone!”

Irritated at her tone, Gendry reached out, catching one of the bits of cloth. “You're a real pain now, you know that?”

Arya marched away, leaving him with the torn material. Later, when he was complaining about how prickly Arya had been recently, Tom laughed, filling Gendry's cup to the brim with wine. 

“They all get like that when they flower the first time. They go a bit mad and then even out again.”

It startled him, the idea of Arya having flowered. Arya was just a little girl, had always been a little girl even when she was killing guards and being braver than he and Hot Pie combined. Tom's words lingered in his brain, his eyes starting to follow Arya as she moved about the inn. Though she still seemed small, Gendry noticed she had grown, now the same height as Hot Pie; when her clothes became too small, some of the men gave her old pairs of pants and shirts which hung on her. Gendry caught Edric Dayne looking at her one afternoon, his eyes focused on Arya's chest, and Gendry could see her shirt was gaping as she bent over, allowing the heir of Starfall a clear look at her breasts; he made certain to tell Harwin to find better fitting clothes for her the next time they rode out, and Gendry decided he hated Dayne even more than he did before.

“So protective,” Jeyne teased dryly one evening as he glowered at the sight of Arya and Edric playing some Dornish game Gendry did not understand. “You don't need to be; that girl is more than capable of tending to herself.”

“She's my friend,” was all he said, angrily tearing his roll and stuffing it into his mouth.

“Odd how you don't watch Hot Pie so closely.”

“It's different.”

“Aye,” Jeyne agreed, taking a bite of her stew. “You don't want to be doing with Hot Pie what you want to be doing with Arya.”

Gendry finally looked away, looking Jeyne in the eye. “You're wrong.”

“Am I?” she challenged. “Because you and Ned look at her the same way, and I guarantee _he_ is not interested in protecting her.”

“You're wrong,” he repeated, his voice weaker this time, uncertainty creeping into his body.

Gendry tried to forget the conversation with Jeyne, determined to ignore the implications of her words. He spent hours in the forge, beating and shaping steel into new swords, armor for the knights, and shoes for the horses. There was no hint of winter in the forge, where it was always hot and no furs were needed to keep warm; some days Gendry could scarcely breathe, but it was _his_ place. A year into winter, as Gendry made a new sword for Thoros, he felt a gust of icy air against his bare back. Turning, he found Arya entering the forge, snowflakes melting in her hair, bundled in furs which she shed almost immediately; she hopped up onto a barrel, saying nothing. She did this sometimes, simply coming to the forge to watch him work; she had done it at Harrenhal too, occasionally fetching him water or another tool. Arya cared little for working in the kitchens and hated tending the children even more; once she asked him to teach her to make something, but his hammer was too heavy and, when she could not swing it, she stomped away in frustration.

As he dipped the sword into the cooling tub, Arya announced, “Tom brought whores back from the Peach. Jeyne is furious, but he said Lannister men were being too rough for them and it was unkind to leave them.”

“So he stole them all?”

“No, just the pretty ones.” Her mouth twisted into something which was part smirk and part snarl. “Bella came with them.”

“Who?”

“You know, the one who wanted to ring your bell. She asked for you.” There was a challenge in Arya's eyes then, fierce and wholly confusing to him. “She's waiting for you.”

“She can wait all she wants. I didn't want her then and I don't want her now.” He tore off his gloves, dropping them onto a table. “Is that all?”

Arya looked at him for a moment before shaking her head. “I'm going to sleep with you and Hot Pie again. The brats make too much noise.”

The inn was crowded with people, nearly all of the Brotherhood seated with a woman from the Peach on his knee. Gendry lost sight of Arya, but Hot Pie begged him for a copper, nodding towards a plump prostitute called Dara. He made the younger boy swear he wouldn't take her to their room before pressing the coin into his sweaty palm, laughing at the combination of anticipation and terror in Hot Pie's eyes. When Bella began to approach him, Gendry politely turned down, pointing her in Anguy's direction before heading upstairs.

There was a fire burning when Gendry entered, Arya seated before the hearth, drying her hair. He paused at the sight of her, watching as the light danced across her face. Her hair had grown past her shoulders in the past few years, the dark of it contrasting nicely with the fairness of her skin; she wore a long nightshirt, and, as she rose, he could make out the shape of her body, the small swell of her breasts, the curve of her waist. He quickly averted his gaze, crossing to his side of the bed. Keeping his back to her, Gendry removed his boots and shirt but kept his pants. Before he thought nothing of sleeping in his smallclothes or even his skin, but everything was different now. He didn't like it.

Arya climbed into bed shortly after him. Gendry could catch the scent of the soap on her skin and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force back the stirring he felt in the pit of his stomach. As always, Arya moved about for several minutes, trying to find a comfortable position, and Gendry felt as if she was nearer to him than she used to be. When she finally settled, her back to him, Gendry breathed a silent sigh of relief, uncertain he'd be able to sleep if she was any nearer.

Just as Gendry began to drift to sleep, Arya softly asked, “Do you think Bella is pretty?”

“No,” he answered instantly, a peculiar tightness encircling his heart. “Do you think Ned Dayne is handsome?”

She scoffed and, for a moment, she sounded exactly like the little girl he first met in King's Landing. “No.”

Gendry waited for something more, but Arya said nothing else, drifting off to sleep. He sighed, his head lolling to look at the spill of dark hair over her shoulders, and knew he would not sleep a wink tonight.


	9. The Partition of an Inheritance (Aegon VI Targaryen)

In the beginning, there is just Ashara.

His first memory is of her, smiling and laughing as she chases him around Magiter Illyrio's manse. She is beautiful and always kind, and the little boy they all call Arthur giggles and giggles as she follows him across the grass, her dark hair streaming behind her. At night she cuddles him against her chest and rains kisses on his face, and Arthur thinks she is the most wonderful mother in the whole wide world.

One day he wakes up and there are trunks packed into a litter and Ashara's hair is silver like his. She says they are going to play a game, and Arthur likes games, so he sits very still as she makes his hair dark. Illyrio gives him a wooden sword before they leave, tucking into the loop of his pants, and the fat man looks genuinely sad as he ruffles his hair.

“Be good, little prince,” the Magister says, and Arthur swears he will be before climbing into the litter with Ashara.

“For now, my name is Lemore and your name will be Brandon.”

Brandon still thinks it is a game then and easily agrees, deliberately enunciating the new name each time he calls her it. They ride for a long time, and Brandon becomes incredibly bored by it. Lemore tries to keep him occupied with games, but it is hard to play with the way the litter moves, and so she tells him stories instead. His favorites are about the brave Ser Arthur Dayne and Barristan the Bold, and he asks Lemore if he can be a knight of the Kingsguard some day.

She gathers him to her, softly kissing his brow, and murmurs, “Oh, you will be something far grander than that.”

When they finally arrive at the new house, there is a man there Brandon does not know. He is sour looking with red hair, and Brandon clings to Lemore's arm as the man bends to look him in the eye. It is only then he cracks a reluctant smile.

“You look like your father.”

Brandon does not remember his father; there has only been Lemore and Illyrio, and Lemore told him long ago Illyrio was _not_ his father.

They tell him his name is Griff now, Young Griff where the man is just plain Griff. This time Lemore dyes his hair blue like the other men in Tyrosh, and Young Griff likes it. Lemore does not chase him around anymore; now she teaches him lessons, letters and geography and the Faith of the Seven while Griff teaches him histories of Westeros and a bit with a sword. When he is eleven, a new man comes; his name is Rolly and he is to teach Young Griff how to fight. He likes it and Rolly says he's very skilled; sometimes he invites Lemore to watch, and she always cheers, a wistful smile on her face. Young Griff is taller than her now, and he grins wide and free as he sidles up beside her.

“I am the greatest swordsman you have ever seen, am I not?” he laughs. Lemore only smiles sadly, cupping his cheek and asking him to come with her so she and Griff can speak to him.

He becomes Aegon that night. They do not tell him all the details of what the Ursurper had done to his family, but Lemore explains she was his mother's dearest friend and Griff was his father's most loyal man. They tell him he had an older sister who died with their mother, an aunt and uncle who are in hiding as well, and that the Iron Throne of Westeros is his by rights.

“You are Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of his Name, and we will restore you to your throne,” Griff promises, and Aegon does not know _what_ to think. From that night on, he recites the names of his family who were killed by Robert Baratheon's rebellion: Aerys, Rhaella, Rhaegar, Elia, Rhaenys. It becomes a prayer, the silent recitation of the names a comfort of who he truly is and why he must remember and fight.

It is Rolly who tells him the whole truth. His master-at-arms describes the Battle of the Trident and the war hammer Robert Baratheon embedded in his father's chest, the man trying to avenge the kidnapping of his betrothed; Aegon asks what happened to the girl his father stole, and Rolly shrugs, says the girl died in a tower in Dorne with Lemore's brother, the great knight from the stories he loved so much as a child. It takes a bit more effort to gain the details of how his mother and sister died. Rolly explains it is all just rumor, that it may not be true at all, but Aegon can see he is lying, that whatever happened the world knows in graphic detail.

“When Tywin Lannister and his men sacked King's Landing, they found your sister under your father's bed. They put her to sword. The baby who took your place, his head was dashed against a wall.” Rolly stops for a long moment, obviously wrestling with whether or not to say what happened to Elia of Dorne before confessing, “The Lannister man raped her and murdered her as well.”

He knights Rolly a few days later, declaring him to be Ser Rolly, and Aegon thinks he will be his most loyal man when he takes the Iron Throne.

But even as he learns his lessons, as he becomes the man and the prince Lemore and Griff _(Ashara and Jon)_ have given their lives for him to become, all Aegon can think of is the baby who died in his place, the older sister he never knew, the mother who died such a horrendous death. He tries to imagine what life would have been like if his father had not stolen the Usurper's betrothed, wonders if he would have wed Rhaenys in the Targaryen tradition, if his mother would be as kind and gentle as Lemore; while Griff and Lemore lecture him on responsibility and obligations, Aegon thinks of how scared his sister must have been, how much pain his mother felt before the end. They will never understand that they have not given him back the legacy Robert Baratheon stole from him.

They have given him a lifetime of knowing he can never truly make this right.


	10. Sunlight Carried Into the Windowless House (Tywin Lannister)

The world believes Tywin Lannister does not care what anyone thinks of him, but this is not true. He does not care if people think him unkind or cruel, if they think he is a miserly bastard or an evil monster; lions do not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep. But what Tywin _does_ care about is making certain no one laughs at his house; so long as he is the Lord of Casterly Rock, no one will whisper in amusement or crack japes at his expense. Tywin is not his father; he does not care if people love him, but he works hard to make certain they fear him.

Tywin despises feasts. They are wastes of money and full of drunken buffoons, and Tywin would rather be anywhere else. But Genna and her useless Frey husband are visiting the Rock, Genna swollen another child, and Tywin will not have it said he does not know how to treat his family. As he sits at the head of the table, drinking from a cup of watered wine, Tywin wonders how much longer this will go on before one of the damned Freys embarrass themselves when he hears a peal of laughter over the din. It is high and bright, the sort of unburdened laugh only someone with a gentle heart can have, and Tywin's eyes seek out the woman to whom it belongs. He cranes his neck and sees Genna is speaking to someone, her boisterous laughter mingling with the other woman's, and Tywin rises to his feet without conscience thought.

He sees a spill of blonde curls and a flash of pink silk only a moment before he sees the face of Genna's companion. She is the most beautiful woman Tywin has ever seen, her smile kind and open; normally he would think anyone who spent much time with his sister insipid, but he can see intelligence in this woman's eyes, a certain shrewdness Tywin recognizes in himself.

“Tywin, you remember our cousin Joanna, don't you?” Genna asks.

He doesn't. The Westerlands are overflowing with Lannisters, and Tywin can hardly keep track of every one of them. Genna keeps prattling on, mentioning Joanna's brother Stafford, and it takes everything he has not to plainly state what an idiot he finds Stafford to be. With a great heave, Genna gets to her feet, announcing she must make water, and Joanna looks a touched amused by his distaste.

“A bold woman, your sister.”

“Yes,” Tywin sourly agrees.

“It must run in the family, for everyone speaks of _your_ boldness.”

Tywin looks at Joanna for a moment before asking, “Are _you_ bold, Lady Joanna?”

“I prefer a more subtle approach,” is all she says, sipping her wine before casting a deliberate lingering gaze upon the dancing couples.

He quite nearly smiles. “Would you care to dance, Lady Joanna?”

“Why, I'd love to. How kind of you to ask,” she quips with mock surprise.

Tywin Lannister is a decisive man. He is not one for wavering and hesitation. As he spins his cousin about the floor, Tywin knows he is going to marry Joanna. If such a thing as happiness exists, Tywin is certain she is the key to it.


	11. Sleeping Beauty (Ned and Sansa)

When Ned returned from war, he was a father with no true understanding of what precisely it meant. He had loved his father fiercely, but Ned felt uncertain in his own ability to be the sort of father to Jon and Robb that Rickard had been to Ned and his brothers. Catelyn was the one who soothed Robb's tantrums and aches, who knew instinctively how to attend to Robb's needs; Wylla and Old Nan tended to Jon, sang of what a good and easy child he was, but Ned always felt woefully inept with both boys. He confessed it once to Cat, shamed and guilty for not being the father Brandon might have been, but his wife only smoothed her hand against his cheek and explained it was different for fathers.

“Children need their mothers more when they are small; it is the way the gods designed it. When Robb is older, you will understand better what to do.”

Catelyn's announcement of being with child again sent Ned into a new round of anxiety. The boys were only recently four-years-old, and he thought he was only now catching the rhythm of his sons. But he choked back his fears and watched as Catelyn blossomed with pregnancy, and Ned admitted it pleased him at night to lay his hands on her ever expanding middle and feel the babe tumble within her. When it was time for her to go to the birthing bed, Ned paced the length of the corridor and irrationally longed for his siblings: Brandon's unwavering certainty, Lyanna's innate ability to comfort, Benjen's sense of humor. Much like he felt he was fumbling with fatherhood, Ned never quite felt as if he found his footing without his siblings there.

And then Maester Luwin calls him into the room and Cat is holding a small bundle in swaddling clothes in her arms. Her hair is plastered to her sweaty forehead and her smile is wide as she announces they have a daughter. It strikes literal fear in his heart; he has been preparing for another son, certain Catelyn's and Nan's predictions of a boy were true. Ned knows even less about daughters than he does about sons, and his hands shake as Catelyn hands him their daughter.

She is the most beautiful baby Ned has ever seen: pink skinned, a bow mouth, Catelyn's Tully hair and eyes. Ned thinks she feels more fragile in his hands than Robb or Jon ever did, and she seems to watch him with her blue eyes. Catelyn murmurs how she'd like to call the baby Sansa, and Ned nods, unable to tear his gaze away from his daughter. He thinks of Lyanna, beautiful, stubborn Lyanna, and Ned vows then and there that his daughter will never meet the same end as his sister; his daughter will always feel safe and loved, will never be promised to a man she does not want or destroyed by a prince blinded by his own selfishness. Sansa Stark of Winterfell will never know the pain the last daughter of wolves knew.

Ned finds himself slipping into her nursery, sitting beside her cradle and watching her sleep, making certain her tiny chest is rising and falling; it is a fear he never had with the boys, but there is something about Sansa which gentles his heart. It becomes a routine; every night before he returns to his own chambers, he stops in Sansa's, listening to the lullaby of her breath. He touches the unblemished perfection of her cheek, ghosts his hand over her silky cap of auburn hair; everyone says she will be an exquisite beauty someday, and it already makes his stomach knot, the idea of men trailing after Sansa with desire in their eyes.

It amuses Catelyn to no end. She teases him that he is a soft touch, that he is already spoiling her; Sansa can scarcely stand on her own, and she already owns fine Northern gowns, beautiful dolls, ribbons of every color. When Arya arrives, Ned carries Sansa into Catelyn's room, Robb trailing behind him, and, when Catelyn attempts to hand him their newest daughter, Sansa frowns and pulls on Ned's hand, petulantly declaring, “ _My_ papa.”

Arya is nothing like Sansa in the same way Jon is nothing like Robb; where Ned could give Sansa dolls and ribbons, Arya wants blocks and Robb's wooden horses. He loves his girls equally, but Ned cannot deny how it warms his heart when Sansa slips into his lap, tucking her head against his shoulder and happily snuggling against him. It is shortly after Arya's second name day Cat announces she'd like to bring a septa, and, though Ned doesn't not care for the Faith of the Seven, he sends south and, a moon's turn later, Septa Mordane arrives.

The changes are immediate. One morning Sansa is climbing onto his knee, kissing his cheek and asking her papa to play with her, and the next she is sitting primly in her own chair, speaking in the precise, measured tones of a little lady and calling him Father. He knows he should be proud of Sansa for being such a quick study, for behaving in a way which will only bring honor to House Stark, but it also makes his heart ache; it is as if he has lost Sansa all at once, his sweet little girl now a lady in training.

Ned checks on all the children before he goes to his chamber. He blows out the candles in the room Robb and Jon share, firmly ordering them to go to sleep and stop pummeling each other with pillows; he picks up the sleeping furs Arya kicks off every night, setting them at the foot of the bed before carefully closing her door. Sansa is soundly sleeping when he enters her chamber, the blankets and furs pulled up to the chin, her russet hair haloed around her head. He brushes a lock of hair away from her face and sighs. All of the children are growing up so quickly, but it makes his heart ache to think of the day he will have to send Sansa from Winterfell, to give her to another man the way Hoster Tully gave Catelyn to him.

“I will make you a good match,” Ned swears in a whisper, tucking her favorite doll into her arm, kissing her forehead.

Ned may not know how to be a father like Rickard Stark, but he does know one thing: the very least a father can do is make certain his daughter is always protected, and Ned will go to the ends of the earth to do whatever it takes to keep his girls from Lyanna's fate.


	12. Carrying Part of the Load (Catelyn and Edmure)

Her mother goes to the birthing bed two moons early. Maester Finn says the babe is another boy, but Mother dies birthing him and, three days later, the babe dies too. Father locks himself in his chamber, Lysa cries day and night, and Edmure clings to her leg, repeatedly asking where their mother is.

Catelyn is eleven-years-old.

She starts waking before everyone else; she dresses without her maids, carefully making certain her hair is in place and her dresses are in good repair. Edmure does not care for his septa and will not listen to anyone but her, so Catelyn goes to his room next, helping him into his clothes, wetting down his messy hair, carefully cleaning his face; sometimes he fights her, but usually Edmure wraps his arms around her halfway through the process and tells her that he loves her. Catelyn kisses his forehead and walks him down to the dining room to break his fast before turning upstairs to begin the far more arduous process of readying Lysa.

Lysa fights every step of the way. She hates Catelyn telling her what to do, hates all of her gowns which she insist are not as pretty as Catelyn's, hates the way Catelyn does her hair; a few times Catelyn's temper gets the better of her and she snaps at her little sister, but she reminds herself that Lysa is just upset and misses Mother like they all do. Besides, if she does not look after Lysa, there will be no one to do it, and Lysa needs a firm hand.

Father goes away. He always traveled before Mother died, and Catelyn does not resent his departure from Riverrun. Before he leaves, he asks Catelyn to keep an eye on her siblings, and she swears she will before watching him ride through the gates, strong and tall upon his horse. She makes mud pies with Lysa and teaches Edmure how to swim, and at night she makes certain to sing them both their mother's songs before retiring to her bed. The impulse to cry is always there. Some nights all Catelyn wants to do is wail for her mother, decry the unfairness of being without her and having to muddle through tending to her siblings, but she doesn't. When the pain becomes too sharp, Catelyn goes to sept, lights a candle to the Mother, and asks for guidance; sometimes she isn't certain if she is asking the gods or her actual mother, but still she goes and prays. 

When Father returns, he tells her she is going to marry Brandon Stark of Winterfell when she is of age. She knows her lessons well, knows Winterfell is in the North, closer to the Wall than to Riverrun, and it makes panic bloom in her chest at the idea of being so far from her family. Lysa begins to pout, wanting to know when _she_ will be betrothed, and Edmure cries that he does not want his Cat to go away. Father seems at a loss as to how to handle their reactions, so Catelyn scoops Edmure into her lap, smoothing a hand over his head and promising she is not going away any time soon, and she reminds Lysa that she is two years younger and Father will be certain to make her a fine match as well. So busy tending to Lysa's and Edmure's pains, Catelyn does not have time to feel her own.

Brandon Stark comes to visit when she is four-and-ten, and Catelyn barely has time to speak with him. Edmure is ill, a summer cold having turned into a sickly crackling in his chest, and he cries whenever she leaves his chamber. Father insists she join them for supper, and Catelyn can hardly keep focused on what is being said as she frets over Edmure. By the time she is able to return to Edmure's chamber, her little brother is positively wailing between wretched coughs, calling for “my Cat,” and Catelyn all but shoves Maester Finn out of the way to climb into his bed and soothe him. She rocks him back and forth, kissing his feverish forehead, and wiping his face with her handkerchief, and in that moment, Catelyn wonders if this is how all mothers feel when their child is ill.

Lysa flirts shamelessly with Brandon, and Brandon, good-natured as he is, takes her up on her offer to show him the grounds. When Hoster comes to Edmure's room to relay this information to her, Catelyn nods distractedly, running a wet rag over a sleeping Edmure's chest, before remarking offhandedly, “They would be a better match.”

“Hmm?”

“Lysa and Brandon,” she clarifies, wringing out the rag over the bowl before returning it to Edmure's burning skin. “She could wed sooner than I, and I'm certain Brandon Stark would want - “

“Why would Lysa be able to wed sooner than you?” Hoster asks.

“I cannot leave until Edmure is older and sent to be fostered. And who would greet visitors and host suppers and - “

Hoster reaches over, taking Catelyn's hands and squeezing them tightly. He has aged so much since her mother's death, but he looks more like himself as he states, “It is not your responsibility to raise my children and do my duties.”

“But I cannot - “

Hoster pressed a finger to Catelyn's lip, smiling weakly. “I know I have faltered some since your mother passed, and I will never be able to adequately thank you for all you have done for our family. But you deserve a life and family of your own, and I will not let you deprive yourself of it to tend to me.”

Catelyn nods, swallowing back the tears rising in her throat. She remains at Edmure's bedside still until the fever breaks, and then she forces herself to spend time with Brandon, to act like a girl of four-and-ten instead of the Lady of Riverrun. 

When Rickard Stark's eldest son departs the Riverlands, Catelyn sits on the bank of the river, dangling her feet in the water. Lysa and Petyr are chasing each other on the opposite side, laughing and squealing as they attempt to catch each other, and Edmure rushes over, unceremoniously plopping into Catelyn's lap. As he always has, Edmure reaches for the end of her braid, stroking her auburn hair before turning his face up and asking, “You still love me more than stupid Brandon Stark, right?”

Catelyn smiles affectionately, kissing the tip of his nose and squeezing him as tightly as she can, forcing a peel of laughter from his lips. “Always and forever.”


	13. Three Words At The Grave (Ned and Benjen)

When Ned returns from the South, they go into the crypts together. Benjen has lost count of how many times he has visited his father and Brandon since they were interred, but he has not been able to bring himself to see Lyanna. His sister had always been his best friend, the person who knew all of his secrets, protected him when they got into trouble, and endlessly wrangled him into adventures. Visiting Lyanna's tomb means fully admitting Lyanna is dead, and Benjen isn't certain he is prepared for that.

He spent the Rebellion at Winterfell, Ned ordering him to remain in the castle because there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Benjen would have given anything to fight beside his brother, to fight to avenge his father and Brandon, to fight to get Lyanna back; he felt so useless in the North but what is worse is how forgotten he felt. It is petty and selfish to even consider, but the names of his siblings will be remembered forever now while he will always be the forgotten Stark, the one whose name will never appear in the histories.

The wet nurse and Ned's bastard had arrived at Winterfell with Lyanna's bones, Howland Reed escorting them. Benjen hadn't thought his brother had it in him, but he liked Wylla with her quick wit and easy laugh; it had been so long since there was laughter in Winterfell. Sometimes he'd sit with her while she fed Jon, and afterward she'd cajole him into holding his nephew, remarking on what a strong resemblance the babe had to the Starks. He bedded her a handful of times before Catelyn and Robb arrived, before what he did at Winterfell began to actually matter. Benjen likes his good-sister and Ned's trueborn son, but her arrival has sent Wylla hiding Jon away from Catelyn's raw pain. Now that Ned has returned, Benjen knows with certainty his indiscretions with Wylla are at an end; Ned will never stand for him dallying with someone in service to their house, especially his son's wet nurse.

As they descend into the crypts, Benjen feels the chill in the air. Ned walks before him with the light, and it strikes Benjen suddenly: _we are the last two Starks._ It isn't entirely true now; there is Robb and there will be more children. But those children will not be Brandon's or Lyanna's, will never know their grandfather, will scarcely know him; he has already decided to take the black, and, now that Ned has returned, he can swear his oath.

A beautiful tomb has been built for his sister. Brandon and their father sit with their swords across their laps, fierce even in death, but Lyanna's stone countenance is serene. Ned sets a bundle of flowers into her lap, his hand resting on the stone hands folded before her, and tears swell over Benjen's lids, spilling down his cheeks. The last time he saw Lyanna, she was laughing in the great hall; when he woke the next morning, she was gone, stolen away by Rhaegar Targaryen, and Benjen cannot believe all that is left of her now is a stone statue.

He is startled to see Ned crying as well, and Benjen cannot imagine what it was like to find her in that tower in Dorne, to see what Rhaegar Targaryen had done to their beloved sister. There had been so little in the raven Ned sent from Starfall, no detail beyond Lyanna's death; Benjen does not even want to think of what tortures Rhaegar put her through, what pains she suffered before succumbing to what Ned said was a fever.

“Jon is hers,” Ned says suddenly, his voice choked, and Benjen realizes he knows nothing at all.


	14. Goodbye, You Dirty World (Septa Mordane)

Her father announces Minisa's betrothal to Hoster Tully the same day Mordane realizes she is pregnant. She knows she cannot go to Maester Olyvar and ask for tansy, and Mordane does not know how to create a concoction herself. There are rumors of some woman in the Westerlands who knows such magics, but it is a long way to Lannisport from Harrenhal. There is no chance of her lover marrying her; he is already wed and likely returned to the Reach by now. 

Mordane has never seen her father so wroth. She thinks he might have struck her if Minisa had not flung herself in the way, pleading with their father to have mercy. Mordane is not stupid; she knows the scandal of this could ruin House Whent, could ruin Minisa's betrothal to Hoster Tully. Her mother weeps, wringing her hands and asking why she would do such a thing, and Mordane has no answer. It was impulsive, as are most of the things she does, but the Tyrell boy was hardly the first she took to bed; she hasn't had her maidenhead for years now.

Father declares she is going to the motherhouse in Oldtown; they will tell those who ask that she is seeking to become a septa. When the babe is born, the Faith will place it with a loving family, and Mordane will return to Harrenhal and claim being a septa did not suit her. Mordane protests at first, but her father makes it clear: she will go to the motherhouse or she will be cast out completely.

She hates the motherhouse. The gnarled old women all look at her with judgment, urging her to go services in the sept twice daily, encouraging her to ask forgiveness for her sins from the Mother and the Maiden. Mordane scowls for the first three moons of her stay, delighting in scandalizing the septas, and then it happens. She is five moons gone with pregnancy when the pain rips through her middle, more excruciating than anything she has ever experienced; there is so much blood, and the septas all gather around her while calling for a maester. As Mordane hovers on the edge of consciousness, one of the youngest septas takes her hand and begins to sing, “Gentle mother, font of mercy...”

Mordane nearly dies that day; the half-formed child does. She stays abed for two moons, weakened and feverish, and the young septa stays with her, offers prayers and songs. For the first time, they do not anger or irritate Mordane; it is a comfort, a balm to her battered soul, and, when she is strong enough, she begins to attend services in the sept voluntarily. Minisa has always been the more devout between the two of them, and Mordane thinks her older sister would laugh to see Mordane singing in the sept, lighting candles to the Seven. When it comes time to return to Harrenhal, Mordane realizes she has no desire to return home; all there will be is her father's disregard, a marriage to some old man who will not care she is not a maid, and having to stay in the grand castle without Minisa there for company. 

“I would like to take the holy vows,” Mordane tells the head of the motherhouse. She writes her father to tell of her intent, certain he will be happy to be free of her, and she writes to Minisa, now at Riverrun, and says her goodbyes. Once the holy vows are made, she will cease to be Mordane Whent of Harrenhal; she will only be Septa Mordane, her only family her fellow septas.

As Mordane covers her head and dons her robes, she thinks she does not look much like herself at all. She doubts anyone from her former life will even recognize her now.

Mordane isn't certain if that makes her happy or sad.


	15. With His Whole Heart (Jon Arryn/Catelyn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is an AU where Jon marries Catelyn and Ned marries Lysa. Obviously this is not remotely close to canon.

Of all of his wives, Catelyn Tully is certainly the prettiest. As he enters the chamber where he is to consummate their marriage, Jon thinks how unfair this match is to her; she should have someone young and handsome, like Ned or Robert, not a man older than her father. But Robert is still betrothed to Lyanna, wherever she may be and Ned is in the other room bedding her sister Lysa, and this is the agreement he made to earn Hoster Tully's bannermen.

“I am sorry,” he offers lamely as he sits upon the bed, feeling older and frailer than his eight-and-fifty years.

To her credit, Catelyn does not flinch away from his closeness. Instead she rests her hand atop his own and says, “It is a great honor to be your wife, Lord Arryn.”

It is a sweet lie, and Jon thinks he might just love her for it. He tries to be the kindest lover in the Seven Kingdoms, taking an extraordinary amount of time to kiss and caress her; if he causes her pain when he breaks her maidenhead, Catelyn keeps it to herself, and Jon is ashamed at how inviting he finds her body to be. She is barely more than a girl, wasted on a man as old as he, but Jon cannot deny how he has longed to share his bed with a wife again.

When he wakes in the middle of the night to make water, he catches sight of Catelyn, the spill of her auburn hair bright against the crisp white pillow, and Jon feels overcome with affection for his young bride.

He swears then and there that he will be the very best husband he can be.

* * *

It is shortly after the Battle of the Bells that a raven arrives from Riverrun. Jon reads the words a half-dozen times, unsure if he is truly understanding them, when Robert demands to know what it says.

“Catelyn is pregnant.”

Robert hoots loudly, insists they all have a drink to celebrate; Ned smiles, claps him on the back, and offers his congratulations. Only once has he been able to get a child on his wife, and poor Jeyne perished then; but Catelyn is young and strong, and the idea of being able to hold a child in his arms when this war is over is a powerfully heady thing.

He composes a letter in reply, trying to convey how truly thrilled he is with this news, and, for the first time since he raised his banners, Jon Arryn truly cares if he survives.

* * *

Robert is on the Iron Throne and has named him Hand of the King; it is not a position Jon had ever wanted to fill, ever imagined holding, but Robert has asked and Jon knows he cannot possibly say no. He loves Robert and Ned as if they are his own children, but he knows their faults well; Ned is far too honorable to ever become comfortable with the level of duplicity such a position will require and Robert is far too gluttonous to care for the details of running a kingdom. All Jon has ever wanted was to keep his wards safe, and, with Ned returning to Winterfell with his wife and his bastard son, Jon knows Ned will be well; he cannot say the same about Robert.

Jon is waiting in the entrance of the Tower of the Hand when Brynden Tully rides into King's Landing, Catelyn riding in the litter. He feels strangely boyish as excitement flutters in his stomach as Catelyn is helped down by her uncle, reaching out her arms as a maid hands her the baby. She looks older than she did at their wedding, dressed in a fine gown in Arryn colors, her hair woven into a complicated undo tight against her head. His son is a large, healthy boy; Catelyn's brief letters have cataloged Robb's vitality, and Jon can scarcely believe after all this time he is finally a father.

He has the Tully look, but Jon does not care a lick he cannot see himself in his son's face. Those first few weeks, every chance he has, Jon is carrying Robb around the Tower, showing off his son with unbridled enthusiasm. Catelyn laughs about it, the first truly unguarded reaction Jon sees, and Jon finds himself laughing too. 

The future suddenly seems so bright.

* * *

He seldom comes to Catelyn's bed. She has never refused him, never hinted she finds making love with him to be distasteful, but Jon is not a stupid man. Catelyn is young and one of the most beautiful women at court; Jon does not dare confuse the friendship between them for something more romantic. He has a great deal of affection for Catelyn Tully, and she is forever looking after him, urging him to eat better, forcing him to see Pycelle when he falls ill, but their marriage will never be a passionate one.

And so it surprises him when, shortly after Robb's third name day, Catelyn appears in his chambers in her night dress, her hair flowing unbound over her shoulders. For a moment, he has a wild hope she desires him, that she wishes for his companionship.

But then she says, “I'd like another child,” and Jon finds reality hitting him squarely in the face.

It is not as if it is unbearable to give Cately what she wants. She asks for so little as it is, never voicing a single complaint when she is shut away with Queen Cersei and her women during the day, never complaining of being homesick; if she wants to keep from his bed, he would not blame her, and if she wants 100 children, he will sire them.

She comes to him nearly every night for four moons before she conceives. Jon frets he is the worst kind of man for wanting a girl so young as desperately as he does, but loneliness is a powerful thing. It is more than just the pleasure which comes from lying with her; Jon prefers the moments after when Catelyn is warm and peaceful in his arms, when they talk and Jon can pretend they have the sort of relationship he once had with his other wives. Some nights Catelyn even falls asleep with her head on his chest, and Jon thinks he is a very silly old man to love his wife as much as he does.

Pregnancy makes her positively blossom; everyone comments on it, and it makes Jon swell with a peculiar sense of pride. He catches her embroidering the smallest gown he has ever seen, and Catelyn blushes as she confesses how she longs for a daughter. When beautiful Sansa is born, Jon thinks he has never seen Catelyn grin so broadly. As he looks upon his wife cradling their newborn daughter, Robb snuggled up beside him touching his sister with amazement on his face, Jon Arryn considers himself the luckiest man in Westeros.

* * *

Ned and Lysa come to court when there are hints of war with Balon Greyjoy. Jon greets Ned with a hearty embrace, and instantly he can see there is no warmth between Ned and his bride. Lysa Tully hardly spares him a look, and she seems to flinch from the sight of Robb and Sansa. Over cups of wine, Ned will explain Lysa has had a handful of miscarriages since they wed; she has begged him to send Jon Snow from Winterfell, genuinely bothered by the idea of Ned having to legitimize his bastard as heir to Winterfell. With Benjen on the Wall, there is no other option; Jon knows it as well as Ned does.

“There is no love between you, no friendship?”

Ned sighs and sounds older than Jon as he does. “It is as if there is a wall surrounding her and I can never quite get through it.” There is something like bitterness in his tight smile as he adds, “Not like you and Catelyn.”

Jon knows it was simply the luck of the draw; Lysa is the elder of the girls, the one who was betrothed to Brandon, and it made sense for her to wed Ned in his brother's place. But even Jon cannot deny that Ned and Catelyn would have been a fine match; her sweet temperament and surprising strength would have suited Ned's quiet way well.

He thinks of this a week later at one of the feasts Robert insists upon having, a week of grand feasts before he and the younger men ride off to end Greyjoy's Rebellion. Jon is speaking with Mace Tyrell and Kevan Lannister, barely listening to their boring, pompous prattle, when he sees Catelyn and Ned seated at one of the trestle tables. Catelyn is laughing, her head tilted back, as is Ned; when they manage to catch their breaths, Jon watches as Catelyn leans in to closely. Whatever she is saying makes Ned smile, and Jon feels his throat tighten at the way Catelyn looks at him. He wonders where Lysa is and then curses himself for such a thought.

Catelyn is an honest woman and Ned, the most honorable of men; there is no reason for Jon to distrust either of them.

* * *

Robert leaves him to run the kingdoms while he and Ned lead armies to the Iron Islands to put Balon Greyjoy back in line. Jon isn't certain which is more difficult: running the kingdoms or avoiding Cersei's displeasure. So distracted with the business of ruling, Jon is genuinely surprised when Catelyn announces she is pregnant again though certainly not unhappy about the news. This pregnancy seems to take more out of Catelyn, and Pycelle recommends Catelyn remain abed for the last few moons of her pregnancy rather than risk depleting her strength.

He is on Dragonstone when Catelyn goes to the birthing bed. By the time he returns to King's Landing, his newest child is already a week old, and Jon is impatient to see Catelyn and the little girl she has called Arya. Robb and Sansa greet him upon his return, Robb chattering excitedly about everything he can think of, Sansa curling happily into his arms; as Jon climbs the stairs to Catelyn's chamber, he thinks he should get Catelyn a gift, some token to show his affection for her and the family they have built together.

Yet the moment he lays eyes on little Arya, Jon knows she is not his child. Her dark hair, her grey eyes, the long line of her face...There is no denying this child has Stark blood, and Catelyn silently cries as he looks upon Arya.

“It only happened once,” she manages when the children have gone, when it is only the two of them in the chamber which now feels far too small. “There is no excuse. Please...please do not make me send her away - “

Jon holds up a hand, silencing her words. He looks at her then, his Tully wife, and he curses himself for thinking someone so young and so pretty could ever truly love him as a man. His throat is tight as he asks, “Why?”

Catelyn wipes at her face with the back of her hand before lamely offering, “Because it was our choice.”

Twice, he had wed a woman of his choosing; something like pity swells in his chest for Catelyn and Ned and Lysa Tully, all of whom had been forced into marriages none of them wanted. She was just a girl when he wed her; he cannot curse her for wanting a man her own age, especially when that man is someone Jon has always loved as if he was his own son.

They do not speak of Arya's paternity ever again.

* * *

The Greyjoy Rebellion is put down and the men return to King's Landing, drunk on their victory. Robert is loud and boisterous, drunk every night, but Ned is nearly silent. Lysa is unhappy with having to foster Balon Greyjoy's last son and unhappier still that she will soon return to the North; Jon can read Catelyn's face well enough to know she is struggling not to roll her eyes at her older sister's dramatics. 

It is pure accident he catches them. He needs to gather some papers before the Small Council meeting, and his path takes him past Catelyn's solar. Jon pauses in the doorway at the sight of Ned cradling Arya in his arms, a look of pure joy on his face as he strokes a finger over her soft cheek. He knows what Ned is feeling; it is the same love and amazement he feels when he sees Robb practice his swordsmanship in the yard, when Sansa presses kisses to his cheeks and asks to hear stories. It is the love of a man who thought he would never be a father and is unbearably grateful to have the chance.

Catelyn stands near a window, and, when she turns, Jon's eyes meet hers. For a moment they look at each other and then Jon nods, leaving them to what little time they have left before Ned returns to Winterfell.

* * *

Lysa gives birth to the first child born with breath a year later. She tells him they are calling the boy Robert, and Jon agrees they should send a gift. Catelyn is quiet for the rest of the evening, Robb and Sansa chattering throughout dinner. He has to meet with Stannis about a matter, and, when he returns to his chamber, he is surprised to find Catelyn in his bed. Her hair is loose, falling around her shoulders most becomingly, and her shift is nearly sheer, a delicate frock gifted to her by the Lady of Dorne.

She hasn't shared his bed since Arya was born, and Jon tells himself she is here now because she missed him. He does not think about Lysa and her son, does not think about the little girl who calls him Papa wearing Ned's face; he only thinks of Catelyn and how he has missed her.

“Let's start over,” Catelyn whispers as she straddles his body, her words and expression so achingly genuine. 

Jasper is born eight moons later, arriving early and so very small. Catelyn nearly bleeds to death during the delivery, and Pycelle says this babe will have to be their last. As Jon holds the frail child, it suddenly strikes him that he is far too old to be getting child after child on his wife; he is not Walder Frey, and the idea of losing Catelyn causes something sharp to rise in his throat.

While Catelyn sleeps, Jon has the septa bring the children in to see their new baby brother. Robb seems slightly confused by the wrinkled bundle in Jon's arms; Sansa coos and sighs, asking if she can kiss his hairless head. Arya is disinterested, tucking herself against his side, and Jon loops his arm around her. 

“House Arryn, in all its glory!” Robert booms as he enters the room, half drunk and accompanied by an irritated looking Jaime Lannister.

For so long, he had been the only Arryn left. Jon is not certain he will ever be able to thank Catelyn enough for gifting him with a legacy. He tells himself a legacy is worth one indiscretion, an indiscretion who is currently squeezing onto his lap in a bid for attention. 

Men have certainly suffered worse trials than a little girl who looks at him as if he hangs the moon.

* * *

Hoster Tully invites them all to Riverrun for a name day celebration. Catelyn is excited to see her siblings, and Jon can admit he is eager to leave King's Landing for a time. Robert gives him a bit of grief, but Jon thinks it is more from jealousy; Robert wants to flee the city as well and would like nothing more than to ride with Ned.

The quieter of his foster sons is already at Riverrun when they arrive. Jon does not see Lysa, but Ned is trying to show his boy something; the child looks sickly and is whining like a child half of his age, and Arya scoffs, “What a baby.”

His daughter's resemblance to the Starks is even more obvious when she is alongside Ned and his bastard. If others notice it, they do not say a word, but Jon often finds Arya chasing after Robb and Jon Snow; Robb has little patience for his younger sister with her pleas to slow down, but it becomes habit to see Arya clinging to Jon Snow's back, her laughter high and bright in a way it never is in King's Landing. Sansa spends her days with the other young ladies, enjoying the cache which comes with living in the Red Keep and sharing tales of the queen, and Jasper tries fruitlessly to play with little Robert. One afternoon Jon spies Lysa still nursing the boy, and the distaste on Catelyn's face nearly makes him laugh.

“She is not how I remember her,” Catelyn murmurs one evening as she helps him apply a salve to his swollen, arthritic joints.

“Time has a way of doing that.”

They make love that night, one of the few times Jon can recall where he feels as if Catelyn is with him body and soul. There is so much love and passion within her, and Jon wishes he could have loved her as a young man, could have known her when he was whole and strong instead of old and weak.

“I love you,” he whispers when Catelyn rests against his chest, her arm stretched across his chest.

He doesn't know if she hears it, doesn't know if she feels it, but it does not matter. Jon loves her and loves their children, and that is all he needs.

Or at least that's what he tells himself when Catelyn and Ned disappear during the day, when Edmund is born eight moons later with Tully red hair and Stark grey eyes.

* * *

He falls ill suddenly, the pain in his abdomen excruciating. Pycelle says it could be any number of things, and they give him milk of the poppy. When we wakes, Catelyn is at his side, clutching his hand between hers. Even worried, she is so beautiful, and he must slur out the thought for Catelyn smiles, wipes his brow with a wet cloth, and declares, “I'm only beautiful because you think me so.”

The pain does not abate. He is certain he is going to die and begins to make arrangements. Robert does not want to hear it, but Catelyn listens; she writes ahead to her uncle at the Gates of the Moon and the Eyrie is prepared for their return. Robb will become Lord of the Vale and Warden of the East, and he hopes his boy is ready for it; Robb has always been a good son, one who understands the value of duty. He tells Catelyn that Sansa is to have the finest marriage they can make but tells her the youngest Tyrell nor Renly Baratheon are to be options. Jon asks to see the children before he passes, and Catelyn brings them.

Their five faces are all twisted with grief, and it gives Jon a peculiar pleasure. He has known many men who died unloved by their children, and he knows this is not the case. Edmund is too small to truly understand; he is not certain how much Jasper or Arya grasp. Not for the first time he wishes he had been blessed with his children as a young man, wishes he could live to see them grow and become who they are meant to be. It will fall to Catelyn now, and though he does not wish to leave her with the burden, he knows she is more than capable of it.

“He'll ask Ned to be Hand,” Jon gasps one night as the pain tears through him, Catelyn's hand clutched tightly in his own. “Ned will...If you need anything - “

“Hush, love,” she urges, holding a cup of milk of the poppy to his lips. “Drink this until the pain passes.”

He grasps her wrist as much as he can, stilling her movement. Her eyes lock with his and he grits out, “I love you. Through it all, I have loved you.”

Tears well in Catelyn's eyes. “I know. I love you as well.”

Jon is not certain if it is true or a kind lie.

As the life leaves his body, Jon is certain he does not care.


	16. The (Wo)Man Who Competes With the Devil (Rhaella Targaryen)

She has always hated him. From the time they were children, Rhaella bore no love for her brother. A time or two, she even fantasized about his death. Being near Aerys was like keeping a lion as a pet; sometimes he would be calm, even be affectionate, but other times he would maul you with more savagery than a person could imagine. Sometimes Rhaella thinks her father saw it in Aerys, saw the madness and cruelty; he always tried to keep her away from Aerys, indulged her desire to be guarded in the Maidenvault. Her sweet father's understanding allowed her those few precious moments with Bonifer, those memories of sweetness and peace she clings to now that there is only pain.

Nothing hurt so much as the bedding ceremony of her wedding. Aerys was as kind as he ever was that night; he even murmured a word of apology for the pain the breaking of her maidenhead caused. But Aerys's concern was always for Aerys, and it was a blessing she started to swell so quickly after the wedding. With a child in her belly, Aerys stays away, and if he spends his time in the beds of other women, Rhaella hopes they are paid well for her brother's perversity. Her father is sick for much of her pregnancy, and Rhaella spends her days with him, lets him lay his arthritic hands against her stomach and listens to stories of the Targaryens of old that she has heard a thousand times before simply because he loves to tell them. Aerys is always at Summerhall with Uncle Duncan and Grandfather Aegon, and he could stay in the Stormlands for all Rhaella cares.

Rhaegar comes on the terrible day she becomes Crown Princess, born into death and destruction, the only things Targaryens seem skilled at reaping. Aerys does not much bother with their son, and Rhaella is glad for it. When Father dies three years later and suddenly she is queen, Rhaella knows Aerys will begin coming to her bed again, will want more heirs. He strikes her hard across the cheek when she says she is not certain she is ready to bear another child and says it is not her decision. As she wipes the blood from her chin, Rhaella vows to deny him everything he wants.

She has always loved Jenny of Oldstones. Aerys ordered her away after Summerhall, but it takes little manipulation to remind him how Jenny knows the woods witch who predicted the greatness of their line. He brings Jenny and the witch to court for only a fortnight, and it is then Rhaella learns how to make moon tea. Jenny clasps her face between her hands, kissing her forehead with dry lips, and Rhaella hates being pitied almost as much as she hates being queen. She does not see Jenny again, and Aerys strikes her the few times she mentions her name.

Rhaella does not know how many children she casts out before Viserys's conception. It is only because they are on Dragonstone that Rhaella cannot cast him out as well, and the pregnancy offers a brief reprieve from Aerys's fury over her worthlessness. Rhaegar is six-and-ten, and he frets over her like a nervous septa, playing his harp for her in the afternoons, helping her from her seat. Rhaella hopes this child is a daughter, a sweet girl with silver hair she can cuddle against her chest and teach to be a just lady. She knows Aerys will insists Rhaegar wed his sister, and Rhaella knows Rhaegar would never dare treat his sister the way Aerys treats her.

Nothing about Viserys is particularly charming. He is a fussy baby and an intemperate toddler, having none of his older brother's grace, but Rhaella promises herself she will not allow Viserys to become like his father. It takes a great deal of patience to deal with Viserys, but Rhaella can see his heart underneath his sourness. When Elia births Rhaenys, Viserys softens some, loving the idea of being a big brother to someone the way Rhaegar is to him, and it warms Rhaella's heart to see the gentleness Viserys has for his niece.

It all unravels so quickly. Rhaegar steals the Stark girl, Aerys kills good Rickard Stark and that damned fool son of his, and Rhaella bears the marks of Aerys's madness on her body for weeks to come. She cannot leave her chambers some days, so beaten and sore, and she starts to fantasize about Robert Baratheon using his warhammer to obliterate her husband. When Aerys orders her and Viserys to be removed to Dragonstone, Rhaella thinks it might be the only kindness he has ever done her.

She begs him to allow Elia and the children to accompany them, but he refuses, gives her the last beating of their marriage. He rapes her on the floor, leaving her to gather the scraps of her gowns to guard against her nudity, and Ser Barristan gives her his white cloak to cover her self when she summons him to ready Viserys. By the time they land on Dragonstone, the child in her belly has taken root and Rhaegar, her greatest pride turned greatest disappointment, has been killed. As the babe tumbles inside her, Rhaella pleads with the gods to let this child be different, to be the blessed child the woods witch predicted so long ago. With word sweet Elia and her grandchildren have been struck down alongside Aerys, Rhaella becomes almost fanatical in her desire for this child to be the object of the prophecy, for all this pain to not have been for nothing.

As she goes to the birthing bed, she forces Willem Darry to swear that no matter what, he will make certain this babe is safe, that Viserys and the child survive no matter what. The storm outside rages with a ferocity Rhaella has never experienced, and she takes it as a sign, the gods signaling this child is special. Rhaella knows there is too much blood in the bed, that something is wrong even as they pull the babe from her body; this is not like Rhaegar's or Viserys's births, and though she wants to be with her children, Rhaella is simply happy the child has survived.

They place the girl in her arms, and Rhaella can scarcely see through her tears. Daenerys Stormborn, she names her, and Rhaella knows in the depths of her soul this is the child Jenny's seer saw all those years ago. There is greatness in her girl, and she will need to be protected until it is her time. She kisses her daughter's silver head, Viserys's wet cheek, and makes him promise to protect his sister before ordering Darry to take them away, to get them to safety.

It takes longer to die than Rhaella expects. There is talk Stannis Baratheon is to land on Dragonstone any time now, and Rhaella remembers the Baratheons have dragon's blood in them too. She expects it won't bring them any more luck than it has the Targaryens, and it almost makes her smile, the knowledge that those who have killed her family will likely be cursed. Kinslaying is the worst of crimes, and Rhaella knows awful crimes.

But as the life drains from her body, Rhaella manages a full grin. Oh, how it would gall Aerys to know a _woman_ will return House Targaryen to greatness. She is not sad to die; she is only sad that she will not live to see Daenerys take back what is hers with fire and blood.


	17. Like Wind in the Hot Sun (Cat/Ned)

The first time Catelyn realized her marriage was not what she thought it was, she had been married for only two years. Robb was just shy of turning a year old, and they had just moved into the grand farmhouse on several acres Brandon bought with his year-end bonus, the farm he was calling Winterfell. While Robb napped, she decided to a do a load of clothes before starting supper and, as she was checking pockets, she found a receipt for a restaurant in the city. The time stamp said the meal was eaten midday a week earlier, and there was no doubt judging by the amount of money spent Brandon had not eaten alone. A business lunch, Catelyn tried to convince herself, but even as she thought it she knew it wasn’t true; a business lunch would be charged on Brandon’s company card, not his personal card. Catelyn didn’t know many people in the city, but Brandon was impossibly handsome and overwhelmingly charming; it certainly wasn’t as if he hadn’t wandered before they married, but Brandon swore it was over, that he’d never stray again.

The only person she mentioned it to was her sister-in-law. There was no way Catelyn could tell Lysa, who would undoubtedly gloat that her rich, handsome husband treated her so shabbily, and she didn’t know many people in the area. Though Catelyn doubted whether or not she should say anything to Lyanna, she also knew Lyanna knew Brandon better than anyone, certainly better than Ned or Benjen. If anyone could help her, it was Lyanna.

“Brandon does what Brandon wants,” Lyanna said, changing her son Jon’s diaper as she spoke. Catelyn was not certain who Jon’s father was – no one was, and Lyanna wouldn’t name him – but he looked so much like the Starks, Catelyn thought Jon might have sprung fully from Lyanna alone. “You can’t change him. Either you learn to live with it or…”

“Or what?”

Lyanna sighed, looking at her with pitying grey eyes. “Or decide _not_ to live with it.”

She toyed with the idea for weeks afterward. Every time Brandon came home late, every time he turned away from her in bed, every time he answered a text message, Catelyn thought about leaving, about returning to her father’s house with Robb, about filing for divorce. She never considered herself to be one of those “stand by your man” women, and she refused to let Brandon Stark make a fool out of her. Catelyn had money from her mother’s inheritance, and she still had a teaching certification; she didn’t need Brandon to care for her and Robb, didn’t need the fancy car and expensive jewelry.

But then Lyanna’s car slid on the ice, crossed the center line, and slammed head-on into an oncoming semi-truck, killing her instantly and orphaning Jon, who escaped unscathed in the backseat. Brandon was a mess after his sister’s death, falling into a depression so deep Catelyn genuinely feared he would do something to hurt himself. While he drank himself into a stupor every day, seldom leaving the house, Catelyn helped Ned take custody of Jon, babysitting her nephew while Ned set up a room for him in his small apartment, handled the necessary paperwork, and tried to adjust to a world without Lyanna in a far more contained way than his older brother. 

It took months for Brandon to come back to himself, a stretch of time that showed Catelyn just how fragile her husband truly was. When he wiggled out from under his grief, Brandon was the husband and father Catelyn hoped he would always be: attentive, loving, doting with Robb. He came home on time, even early some days, and the barrage of mysterious messages stopped as well as the receipts in his pockets. Happiness began to filter into Catelyn’s world again, and when she became pregnant with Sansa, Catelyn chalked up Brandon’s early behavior to a young man who wasn’t used to married life and thought it would be the end to their unhappy days.

She could pinpoint the exact moment everything began to change. Sansa was six-months-old, and they were supposed to go to Rickard Stark’s house for supper that Friday night. Catelyn bundled up Sansa, snapping her into her carseat, and mildly bribed Robb into his booster seat with the promise of a milkshake on the way home. By the time she arrived at Rickard’s, Benjen and Ned were both already there, Jon and Robb disappearing together the moment they saw each other, and Catelyn apologized, swearing Brandon would join them but had been held up in the city.

Catelyn loved Rickard Stark. He was a quiet man, more like Ned than Brandon or Benjen, but never once had he made her feel unwelcome in his family. The way he doted upon his grandsons and now Sansa made Catelyn hope there was some of his father in Brandon, made her wish Brandon would follow his father’s example and be the man Catelyn needed him to be. She could see on both Ned’s and Benjen’s faces that Brandon was not coming, but Catelyn tried not to show how much it bothered her. She laughed at Benjen’s jokes, listened to Robb and Jon tell stories in tandem, answered the few questions they asked; by the time dessert was eaten and coffee drank, Robb and Jon were asleep in the living room, Sansa happily babbling in Benjen’s arms.

“He’s been so busy with work lately,” Catelyn said, nervously playing with the end of her long braid. “His firm just landed a big client, and there’s so much to be done – “

“Brandon has always been a hard worker,” Rickard agreed, and Catelyn saw a muscle in Ned’s cheek jump as he clenched his jaw. 

Ned offered to carry Robb to the car as Catelyn juggled Sansa’s carrier and diaper bag. So focused on snapping Sansa’s car seat into the base, trying to push away the thoughts of what exactly Brandon was doing in the city, Catelyn did not realize Ned had come around the car until he gently touched her elbow. She looked up at her brother-in-law and, not for the first time, catalogued the ways he was not like Brandon: not as tall, not as handsome, not as outgoing. Tonight, though, she was glad for the differences. There was something comforting about Ned’s solemn face, about the way he looked at her not with pity but with something kinder, gentler.

“What’s her name?” Catelyn asked.

Ned studied her for a moment, almost as if he was trying to divine whether or not she truly wanted an answer, before murmuring, “Barbrey.”

She knew instantly whom he meant. Barbrey Ryswell was the wife of another of the partners, and Catelyn always thought the other woman disliked her. _Now I know why_. Catelyn reasonably knew anger or sadness should be her reaction, but all she felt was a peculiar numbness.

“I pushed too hard to get married,” she said, surprised to hear the emotion in her voice. “He wasn’t ready, and I told him it was now or never after so long. I don’t like going into the city like he does, and I still haven’t lost all the weight I gained with Sansa – “

Ned’s hands cupping her face were firm and slightly startling; Catelyn could count on one hand the number of times Ned touched her in the past ten years and never once so intimately. “Don’t you dare blame yourself for Brandon’s failings. Catelyn, you…Brandon should thank God every day for having someone like you as his wife. He has no idea how lucky he is.”

She didn’t know why she did what she did next. Catelyn believed in her marriage vows and she loved her husband; but it had been so long since someone said such kind words to her, since someone looked at her the way Ned was looking at her, and Catelyn ached for it so strongly, she could weep.

His lips were cool, a bit rough; for a moment, they both seemed to freeze, disbelieving of what was happening. But then Ned seemed to sigh and Catelyn opened her mouth, accepting his tongue easily. His kiss was deep and warmed her to the core, and as Ned carefully rested his hand on her hip, his fingers flexing, pulling away stopped occurring to Catelyn.

The sound of Catelyn’s phone ringing in her pocket broke the spell, and she pulled away with a gasp. Their eyes locked for a beat before Catelyn fumbled for her phone, Brandon’s name flashing across the screen. Ned saw it and, without her saying a word, nodded shortly before heading up the walk towards the front door. Catelyn wanted to call after him but had no words to give him; instead she answered her husband’s call and pretended she believed his story.

It was a week before she saw Ned again. Both Robb and Jon were playing in a soccer league for 4-year-olds, and Ned sidled up to her on the sidelines that Saturday morning. Brandon went to the office first thing that morning, leaving Catelyn a note, and as she sat on the blanket with Sansa, she wondered if Robb ever envied Jon for having a father who was present, if he was even old enough to recognize it yet.

“What happened the other night can’t happen again,” Ned said as Sansa reached for him, wiggling her body as she recognized her uncle. Catelyn watched at the easy way he scooped her up, the gentle brush of his hand over her sparse, ruddy hair.

“Why not?” she blurted out, and Ned’s grey eyes widened in surprise.

“He’s my brother. You’re his wife.”

Catelyn nodded, watching as Robb and Jon chased down the ball among the pack of players. She wondered how many of the parents thought they were brothers, the two Stark boys who were always thick as thieves. 

“It isn’t that I don’t want you,” Ned continued, his voice soft so it would not carry. “I’ve…I can’t do that to him.”

“I understand.” And she did. To be honest, she wasn’t sure if she could go through with anything either. She couldn’t help but feel stupid for even considering such a thing, and she twisted her face away from Ned and Sansa to hide her expression.

“Cat…”

She took a deep breath, trying to school her face into blankness, before turning back to him. The sight of Sansa settling her face into the curve of his shoulder made Catelyn’s throat tighten; she forced herself not to consider how different her life would be if Ned Stark were her husband rather than Brandon.

“We can’t,” she stated, trying to put steel in her voice. “It isn’t who we are.”

Ned nodded, and they both turned their attention to the game. When it was over, Jon and Robb came barreling towards them, demanding to know if they saw their best moves, asking if they could have lunch at McDonald’s to celebrate their win. As Ned stood with Sansa still in his arms, the boys at his side, Catelyn gathered the blanket and Sansa’s toys, tucking them into the diaper bag. Climbing to her feet, she nearly stumbled as an elderly couple stopped before them, the woman declaring, “Oh, aren’t you the most adorable little family.”

Catelyn waited for Ned to correct her. When instead he said, “Thank you,” Catelyn knew Ned liked to pretend too.

Maybe they couldn’t have what they wanted, but Catelyn did not see any harm in pretending.


End file.
